Laughter Lines
by Dreigiau
Summary: Everyone in a position such as that held by Mycroft Holmes has a list of people who must be contacted in case misfortune should befall them. Mycroft's list is only two names long. The first is his younger brother, Sherlock. The second, Gregory Lestrade.


Mycroft Holmes died on a Sunday morning.

One Week Before

Greg made his way home from work late on Sunday evening. So late that it was, in fact, very nearly Monday morning by the time he stepped through the front door.

He moved his way through the house quietly. The door to Mycroft's study was open and Greg leaned in the doorway for a moment. His partner was on the phone, and Greg raised his hand in a silent greeting. Mycroft smiled briefly in reply, then pinched the bridge of his nose and snapped into the receiver.

Greg left Mycroft to it. The younger man was clearly engrossed in work, and Greg was far too tired to wait up for him to finish. He had eaten at the Yard, so he headed straight upstairs. It took him only minutes to strip down to his pants, brush his teeth, wash his face and crawl into their bed.

Greg was still trying to get comfortable when the bedroom door opened. He lifted his head and smiled as Mycroft crossed the room. Mycroft paused at the side of the bed to kiss Greg's forehead briefly before disappearing into the bathroom.

When Mycroft emerged he had changed into his pyjamas and he crawled immediately into bed, curling himself around Greg's back and flicking off the bedside light which Greg had left on. Greg shifted back against him, grinning as he settled. It was rare that he got to be the little spoon when they were cuddling. By accident rather than by planning, that role seemed to always fall to Mycroft. Much as Greg enjoyed wrapping himself around Mycroft, he also liked the feeling of his back against Mycroft's chest. The safety and comfort, the feeling of being protected that it leant.

"I am going to be away for a few days, next week," Mycroft murmured into Greg's hair.

"Yeah?" Greg asked.

"I'll leave early on Thursday, and be back late on Monday." Mycroft curled tighter around Greg, lips brushing the back of his head as he spoke. "Meetings, I won't be able to call at a reasonable hour."

"Okay," Greg agreed quietly, fighting to keep his eyes open. "I'm working every day except Monday. I'll pull some long days, see if I can wrangle Tuesday off too."

"I shall miss you," Mycroft murmured, and Greg caught his hand, pulling it up to his lips.

"I'll miss you too," he replied. "Love you." Greg fell asleep before Mycroft could reply.

One Day Later

The fact was not decided upon until early the following afternoon. The discovery of a room covered in Mycroft's blood, too much for him to have survived according to an expert who had seen the scene, changed the official ruling from Missing In Action to dead.

There were two names on Mycroft's list of people to contact in the case of anything happening to him. His younger brother was the first. It was clear to him what had happened the moment he opened the door to find two grim faced men in suits standing on the far side. He stood aside to let them in, gestured them towards the sofa, and perched in his armchair as they spoke. He ignored their condolences and questions in favour of staring at the wall in front of him. He spoke only once, to request that they send over photos of the scene as soon as possible.

Sherlock's flat mate bustled in, Tesco bags in hand, before they left. He took one look around the room and his brow crinkled, carrier bags dropping to the floor as he crossed to Sherlock's side. The two suits took their leave without any further comment, leaving behind a silent Sherlock and a confused John Watson.

The second person was Mycroft's live in partner, Gregory Lestrade.

Greg was home for the afternoon, enjoying a few hours off after a hard weekend and expecting Mycroft home late that evening. He was reading when the doorbell rang, and he grinned to himself as he stood. Mycroft was home early, he expected. He had left his phone upstairs, so would have missed any warning that that would be the case.

His grin dropped as he opened the door. He did not know the two men on the other side. They were not Mycroft's employees, he knew all of them at least by sight. They both pulled out identification before he had time to ask for it, and Greg stepped aside to let them in.

"Is Mycroft okay?" Greg asked immediately. There was only one reason he could think of for them to be there.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, if you could sit down, we have some news," one of them said. Greg tried not to swear under his breath as he led them through to the lounge and dropped into his armchair.

"Something's happened to him, hasn't it?" he asked, wrapping his arms around himself.

"Mr. Holmes was pronounced dead at half past eleven this morning. There is no body, but there is conclusive proof that Mr. Holmes is-"

"Dead," Greg finished for him, running a hand through his hair. "Right." Something was caught in Greg's throat, and he swallowed thickly in an attempt to clear it. There was an odd buzzing in his ears, too. "What about the team who was with him? Anthea?"

"Missing, though it is presumed that the situation is the same."

Greg nodded, trying to ignore the fact that he was shaking as he inhaled. "Well. Thank you for letting me know. You can see yourselves out?"

"Is there anyone you would like us to call for you? Anything we can do?" the man's voice was rather more gentle than it had been. Personal rather than formal, an individual rather than someone working.

"No, no there's no one. I'll be fine." Greg forced himself to stand, to see the two men to the door. Once it was closed behind them he sank to the floor, staring blankly at the wall on the other side of the hallway and swallowing. Fine, his mind insisted. Everything was going to be fine. He would cope, would manage. Just as soon as he was sure that his legs could support him again.

One Week Later

"New case?" John asked as he passed behind Sherlock. The younger man was sitting in his armchair, a small stack of photos of what was obviously a crime scene in his hands.

"No," Sherlock replied quietly. The tone was enough to make John pause, crossing back to stand behind Sherlock's chair and look down at the photos. "They are the photos taken by the expert who pronounced Mycroft dead."

John reached out, bracing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder in silent support. For all that the brothers had argued, John had not been surprised to see Sherlock so affected by Mycroft's death. "They finally sent them over?"

"Several samples were tested, it is all Mycroft's," Sherlock said. John was not sure if he had missed the question, or chosen to ignore it. "I do not-" Sherlock paused. "I cannot ascertain if he could have survived the blood loss." He scowled at the photos. John could not miss the shake in his hands.

"Pretend it's not Mycroft's," John suggested, squeezing his shoulder gently. "It's just a case, just a scene."

Sherlock nodded, leaning back into the touch before returning his attention to the photos. "Huge blood loss," he murmured. "Multiple wounds, knife most likely, rather than bullet. The blood is not pooled, the body was not left in place, but moved." He paused again, taking a quick, shallow breath. "Chances of survival at less than one in a hundred." He glanced up at John. "He's dead."

John nodded, moving around to sit on the arm of Sherlock's chair. Sherlock leant in against the other man's side, and did not protest when John placed a hand on his arm, rubbing gently. John did not move as Sherlock trembled against his side. He did not comment as silent tears slipped down the consulting detective's face.

Slowly, Sherlock calmed, curling his feet up onto the chair and leaning against John with a heavy sigh. John shifted his hand from the other man's arm to his shoulder, still stroking gently.

"I promised we'd go see Greg this evening. You still feeling up to it?" John asked quietly. "I can go alone, if not."

Sherlock's fingers knotted tight into the hem of John's jumper, and he kept his gaze on the floor as he replied. "Don't want to be alone."

John nodded, covering Sherlock's hand with his own as he checked the time and decided that they could wait a little longer before they left.

There was not any sort of funeral for Mycroft. There was no body to bury or cremate, no family other than Sherlock to gather, and neither Mycroft, Sherlock nor Greg had any sort of religious leaning. Greg's primary years at a Church of England school certainly were not enough for him to feel that a funeral was necessary.

Instead John, Sherlock and Greg gathered at the house which Greg had shared with Mycroft for the past eighteen months.

Greg welcomed them with a smile that John found worryingly blank, ushering them through into the lounge and offering around drinks. They spent time talking, and not talking, mostly avoiding the topic of Mycroft entirely.

Later that evening John found Greg leaning on the railings of the balcony, his tumbler hanging from his fingertips as he looked out over the garden, and London beyond it. He did not look up as John stood beside him, but he did lift his drink to his lips and take a small sip before speaking.

"Maybe he'll come back."

"Pardon?" The reply from John was startled, confused, and Greg shook his head.

"Maybe he'll come back. After all, yours did."

Greg started to laugh, then, and once he had started found that he couldn't stop. John watched in concern as the laughter turned into shaking sobs. After a moment he stepped closer, rubbing Greg's back comfortingly as, for the first time since the news had arrived, the DI let himself cry.

John did not say a word. He took the glass away carefully, setting it aside before returning his attention to Greg. Greg was right, John knew how he was feeling. Knew well the gut wrenching pain of having a Holmes torn from his life, the dead emptiness that followed losing someone that he had loved. Still loved, he corrected mentally. He knew the hole that it left in a life.

He would not miss Mycroft, John thought. Not in the way that Sherlock and Greg would. He had not lost a brother, or a lover. He had lost an acquaintance, certainly. But he was not unfamiliar with that - the war had taken plenty from him. Mycroft had kidnapped him, upset Sherlock more than once, and lied about Sherlock's death for three years.

But he would hurt for the fact that people he cared for were mourning. He would be there when Greg needed a shoulder, when Sherlock needed someone to hold him. He could do that, at least. And he would do it for the two of them, not for Mycroft's sake.

One Month Later

Greg stood in front of the mirror and considered himself. He looked well rested, he thought, more so than he had in years. He had lost a little weight, it was obvious to him in the fit of his work clothes. He would have to keep an eye on that.

It was his first day back at the Yard as a DCI, and to say that he was looking forward to it was an understatement. Mycroft had left him the house, and all told the rest of what he had been left was enough that he would never have to work a day again, even once he had told Sherlock to take anything that he wanted, to add to the few family items which Mycroft had passed on to his brother. (It turned out that what Sherlock wanted was a single set of books from the library and one of the several properties that Greg now owned. A small cottage in Sussex which Greg had been more than happy to hand over.)

But for the past week Greg had been bored out of his skull. There was a time when he would have given an arm for a month off of work, but without Mycroft to spend it with there seemed no point to it. Money was not the issue, rather that he needed to be doing something again, needed to feel busy and useful.

It did not take him long at all to get back into the swing of things. Within the week he was entirely settled back into work, and feeling better about it than he ever had. Between working and eating, Greg found that for the first time since he started with the Yard he had almost had enough time to sleep. He was busy, but fairly well rested and he was doing well for it. His solve rates were up far beyond what they had been in his years as a DI. So long as he did not spend too much time at home, or too much time by himself without anything to do, he could almost convince himself that he was happy.

Three Months Later

Anthea made a phonecall from France and was picked up by an old friend of Mycroft's. It took her less than a week to track down Greg (he had not moved) and work out what it was that she wanted to say to him.

When she arrived at his front door, everything that she had planned to say went out of her mind, and she instead pressed forwards into a hug. He asked her not to apologise, but instead to tell him what had happened.

So she told him about how Mycroft had apparently figured that something was wrong in one of his meetings, a clue so minor that Anthea had missed it entirely. She told him that he had sent her away, told her to find herself somewhere safe while he dealt with the situation.

How after not hearing for him for a month she had finally deemed it necessary to head back to England. Because one month was the time that they had always agreed that she would wait for him. How after moving back across Europe under the radar, the first thing that she had been told on her arrival was that her employer was dead. She looked at him as she said the next part, clearly haunted by her words. That she had failed Mycroft, failed to protect him as she had been employed to, as she had promised to.

They sat together for the afternoon and spoke about him. They laughed, and commiserated, and Anthea cried for him while Greg rubbed her back soothingly.

She told Greg that she was planning to go travelling for a while. She had money saved, and no wish to go back into immediate employment. He wished her luck, made her promise to send postcards, and saw her out of the door late in the evening.

One Year Later

Greg looked around sharply when the front door opened late one evening. No one but him had a key, and he stood from the sofa to go and investigate.

"Sherlock?" he called. The consulting detective dropped by often enough, and he never did bother to knock. Greg had stopped trying to convince him not to pick the locks, instead getting used to the break ins which he had not experienced since he first started working with the other man. They had stopped almost entirely once John had moved in with Sherlock, and he had not had a single visit while he was living with Mycroft. Since Mycroft's death, however, he had begun to visit again. Greg was surprised if he did not see Sherlock at least every other week.

When he did not receive a reply he frowned. He stepped out into the hallway, another question dying on his lips as he took in the view that greeted him.

"Not quite," Mycroft said.

Greg stepped towards him without thinking about it. He gathered Mycroft into a tight hug, pressing his face into the other man's shoulder and reminding himself to breathe. He pulled back, just enough to look Mycroft over, stroking a hand down the other man's arm. "You look like hell," he commented quietly.

"I do not doubt it," Mycroft agreed. He moved to lean his forehead against Greg's. For a moment they simply revelled in their closeness, holding each other in the hallway.

"You owe me one hell of an explanation," Greg murmured, lifting a hand and pushing a few stray strands of hair away from Mycroft's face.

"I know," Mycroft said, leaning into Greg's touch. He was sagging, Greg noticed, letting Greg take some of his weight.

"Later," Greg offered, stepping back slightly, keeping close. "Do you need anything?"

"Food, sleep." Mycroft paused, clearly considering. "I am probably dehydrated."

Greg nodded, taking his hand and leading him towards the kitchen. He leant against the counter as he watched Mycroft make his way through a sandwich and a glass of water. He focused on every movement, every inch of the man who he had never thought he would see again.

When Mycroft was finished Greg took his hand again and pulled him to his feet. There was a momentary pause, then Mycroft stepped into another tight hug. They were both shaking, and Greg was so relieved that he thought he might cry.

"I believe I owe you that explanation," Mycroft said eventually, his chin resting on Greg's shoulder.

"Come to bed?" Greg asked, rubbing Mycroft's back gently. "You're exhausted, and I want- I want you close."

Mycroft nodded, and it did not take them long to get themselves changed (Mycroft had to make do with a spare pair of Greg's trousers, slightly too short in the leg and nearly slipping off of his narrower hips) and curled up together under the duvet. Greg lay on his side, Mycroft facing him, curled so that they were nose to nose, their knees touching.

"They told me you were dead. That you'd bled out in some room in the back end of beyond. They had an expert, and Sherlock confirmed it and I-" Greg cut off, shaking his head and squeezing Mycroft's hand.

"I nearly was," Mycroft replied softly. "I suppose a religious person would call my survival a miracle. The likelihood was-"

"Less than one percent, according to Sherlock," Greg finished for him.

"Exactly," Mycroft agreed. "I managed to get just far enough to be found. By another bout of luck, it was a trained paramedic who stumbled across me first. She saved my life. It took months for a full recovery, and I had to cross back to the UK under the radar. They were still searching for me, none of mainland Europe was safe. It took quite the string of coincidences to get me home."

"I thought you didn't believe in coincidence," Greg said, bringing Mycroft's hand up and brushing his lips over the knuckles gently.

"I don't," Mycroft replied.

"No coincidence, then. You got home off your own back. I'd call it fate, if I believed in that sort of thing." Greg smiled, shifted closer, pulled Mycroft in against his chest. "Who else have you seen?"

"No one," Mycroft said quietly. "The intention was always to get back to you, first and foremost. I intend to go and see Sherlock tomorrow, and to inform work of their mistake afterwards. Do you know anything of what happened to Anthea?"

"Saw her about nine months back, she got home safe. She went travelling, I'll show you the postcards," Greg promised. Mycroft nodded against his neck, yawning widely and curling closer than Greg thought he should be able to.

"Does this mean you're going to want the Sussex cottage back?" Sherlock asked when Mycroft stepped into 221B.

"You only ever had to ask for it," Mycroft replied, ignoring a clearly baffled John Watson in favour of keeping his focus on his brother.

Sherlock nodded shortly, standing from his armchair and pulling Mycroft into a tight hug. John made a confused sound in the background, and was summarily ignored by both of them. The hug lasted only seconds, but when Sherlock pulled away it was clear that they had settled something.

"I see that Lestrade was pleased with your return," Sherlock commented, dropping back into his chair.

"And I see that Doctor Watson has decided to keep you." Mycroft gestured to the plain ring on Sherlock's hand.

"I will not be inviting dead people to the wedding," Sherlock informed him with a smirk. Mycroft smiled thinly, inclining his head towards John before turning to leave. He paused in the doorway, turning back to face them both.

"Congratulations, both of you." As he made his way down the stairs he could hear John's questions, followed by Sherlock's short, to the point answers.

Fourteen Months Later

Greg rolled over as he felt Mycroft shift on the mattress next to him. He peered at the time, five am, and scowled before wrapping an arm around Mycroft's waist and tugging him back down into the bed beside him.

"Don't go," Greg murmured into the skin of Mycroft's back. He felt Mycroft shiver at the feeling of lips against his skin and grinned. He would not convince Mycroft not to go at all, he knew. But he might manage an extra few minutes of cuddling.

"Gregory, you know that I must," Mycroft replied. But he allowed Greg to hold him down. After a moment he rolled over so that they were nose to nose.

"Not yet," Greg told him, pressing into a brief kiss. "I get you for five minutes first."

Mycroft nodded. He could let Greg have a few minutes to just lie together. He deserved so much more, so much that Mycroft could not offer, not while trying to rebuild a career and a political life that had been abandoned for so long.

"Still with me?" Greg asked quietly, lifting a hand to stroke Mycroft's hair back from his face. "You look a million miles away."

Mycroft shook his head, pressed his nose into Greg's neck, inhaled deeply. He did not deserve this, any of it. Greg's patience, Greg's understanding.

"I don't know what I did to deserve you," he mumbled eventually.

Greg chuckled, pulling back to press a kiss to Mycroft's forehead. After a moment he moved a hand up to cup Mycroft's jaw, peppering kisses across his nose and cheeks.

"You came back," Greg said, resting their foreheads together. "Go on, you'd better get yourself off, or you'll be late. I'll try and be home early tonight."

Mycroft nodded, kissed Greg again, and finally managed to move out of Greg's embrace and leave the bed. Greg watched him move around the room, getting dressed and gathering the things that he would need for the day.

Greg sat up in bed, swinging his legs over the side and gesturing Mycroft to him once he was done. He pulled Mycroft into the v of his legs as soon as the other man was close enough, wrapping his arms around Mycroft's waist. He leant his head on Mycroft's middle, holding him close for a few long seconds.

"I shall see you this evening," Mycroft said, running his fingers gently through Greg's hair.

"I'll be home early," Greg told him. "Have a good day. I love you."

"I'll try," Mycroft promised, stepping away and smiling down at Greg. Greg watched him leave before settling back against the mattress and curling back up under the duvet. He had another hour before he had to be up.

If there was any plus side to Mycroft not being allowed back to work until they had convinced themselves that he had not been compromised while he was away, it was that he was sleeping properly every night. Home at nine each evening, curled up in bed with Greg by eleven, and away again at six. Every day, like clockwork.

The first week had been the worst. After his one night at home, curled up close in their bed, Mycroft had gone to see Sherlock. He had left Greg with a brief kiss, a promise that he would be back soon, and a warning that he may be held up for a few hours by getting things in order at work.

Greg had not seen or heard from him for three days, after that.

He had been annoyed, if not overly concerned, the first day. Mycroft's hours often stretched into days when it came to work. Greg had forced down the little flutter of panic in the pit of his stomach and gone about his usual routine.

When he woke up the next morning to find that Mycroft was still not back, the panic which Greg had been ignoring unfurled in his gut, and it was a fight to go about his morning routine. He spilled his coffee, snapped at everyone who came into his office, and by lunchtime was aware that he was a complete mess.

He had tried Mycroft's phone, then Sherlock's when that had gotten him no reply. Sherlock had said that he had not seen Mycroft since late the previous morning. He had been surprisingly useful, almost kind as he had explained that Mycroft was likely simply held up at work.

Greg had had the following day off, and he had spent the morning working himself up into a complete panic. So when Mycroft let himself into the house in the late afternoon, Greg's first reaction had been to shout at him. He had bitten down on it, taken a moment to consider the man in front of him, and sighed instead. Mycroft had been clearly exhausted, explained that work had taken longer than expected in a voice which was as much of an apology as Greg needed, and spent the rest of the evening curled up on Greg's lap, his head tucked under the older man's chin.

Since then Greg had done his best to line up his working hours with the times that Mycroft was out of the house. It was best, he had found, if he was home before Mycroft was. Best if he was there to gauge how the day had been and react appropriately. On good evenings that meant a cup of tea, take away and conversation before they tumbled into bed together, kissing and touching and relearning each other. On bad evenings it meant a quiet cuddle on the sofa, soothing movements and murmured reassurances that everything was going to be okay.

Above all, it meant that he got as much time as possible with Mycroft. Time that they desperately needed. Time that gave them the chance to reaffirm that Mycroft was back, that he was safe, that they were going to be okay, both individually and together.

Fifteen Months Later

Greg opened the front door and was immediately met by the smell of roasting lamb. He paused in the doorway, inhaling deeply before pushing the door closed behind him. He shrugged off his coat and hung it up before making his way into the kitchen.

Mycroft was standing at the hob, humming as he dropped sliced carrots into a pot of water. Greg paused in the doorway for a moment, leaning against the frame and watching Mycroft move around the kitchen. He had caught himself doing that a lot, recently. Watching. There was still a certain novelty to just enjoying the fact that Mycroft was back. Every moment, from waking up a few minutes early to watch Mycroft sleep to watching him putter around the kitchen making tea and coffee, was something that Greg had never thought he would see again.

"We celebrating something?" he asked, stepping across the room to catch Mycroft around the waist and draw him back into an embrace.

"I have been accepted back to work, I start again tomorrow," Mycroft told him, leaning back slightly. "Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes."

"That's fantastic," Greg murmured against Mycroft's neck, pressing a quick kiss to the skin behind his ear. "Really love, wonderful."

The three months since Mycroft's return had been their own sort of hell. Mycroft had been in the office for full days, seven days a week, while his employers tried to establish that he was still loyal. He had come home more than once wanting to do little more than curl up in Greg's lap and let the older man sooth him. Mycroft's work schedule had always been hectic, but they had never faced anything quite like the past twelve weeks together. Mycroft who was working hard one one thing, when he was being put through the wringer every day it was quite another. They had hung on knowing that it had to end eventually, that things would settle back to something easier to cope with.

For Greg, having Mycroft back but barely seeing him had been surreal. There had been times when he had had to pause, to force himself to remember that Mycroft was really back, that he had not just made it up. Despite everything else, he had Mycroft back, and it was only focusing on that fact that had seen them through without any major arguments.

Mycroft turned towards him, leaning into a light kiss which he allowed Greg to deepen almost immediately. Greg rested their foreheads together when he pulled away, grinning. "It'll be good to have you back to normal."

"Indeed," Mycroft agreed, a soft smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

"I'm going to go change for dinner. I'll be back down in ten." Greg drew Mycroft into another kiss then stepped out of his embrace. He left the kitchen and headed up the stairs, humming to himself as he went.


End file.
